


True Colors

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Drugs, Force Suggestion, Gen, Jedi Culture, Mandalorian Culture, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Mission Fic, Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, Pirates, Smuggling, The Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18284165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: Some names can be cast off, but some names follow you.Some names aren't yours to give away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This story takes place BETWEEN _The Desert Storm_ and _Ruin._ with the exception of the ending, which takes place AFTER _Fallout_

“A mission?” Obi-Wan repeats brightly. “As in, a _real_ mission?”

Ben shakes his head at his padawan and reaches out to tug on the stub of his padawan braid. “Initiate training missions are still real missions.” He chides lightly, though he privately agrees with Obi-Wan. The Council had assigned them to escort initiates to Ilum three times now, and without fail each group patented a special scowl reserved only for Master Naasade’s pleasant repetition of ‘again’. He was beginning to get suspicious looks from the crèchemasters, tempered only by the fact that their clans were so busy demonizing Master Naasade that they re-emerged from Ilum suddenly _fonder_ of their own clan crèchemasters. “But yes, a real mission.”

“Spec-tacular.” Obi-Wan says precisely, and Ben wonders which of Shmi’s friends had introduced the word. He’d heard Anakin and Obi-Wan parroting it back and forth to each other last night over dinner.

“We’ve been assigned to investigate missing cargo.” Ben relays, eyeing his padawan, whose mood surprisingly doesn’t plummet at the revelation. Most padawans hoped for something… _exciting_ , right off the bat, and only by the time they were senior padawans did they dream of simpler times. Then again, Obi-Wan was still somewhat petrified of stepping out of line, all too grateful that he was actually still here, and not shipped off to Bandomeer. Any mission was a good mission in his mind.

Except, apparently, Initiate Training Missions.

“Chandrila has reported a consistent loss of medical shipments and the depletion of supplies is beginning to strain their healthcare system. They suspect that this is not mere piracy, but a leak skimming off the top. They’ve asked the Jedi to discover where and by what means the shipments are being taken, and, if possible, reacquire them.” Ben says.

“So…we’re tracking cargo?” Obi-Wan supposes.

“We’re tracking cargo.” Ben nods. “We’re due to leave tomorrow, so be sure to pack and duly inform your instructors, padawan.”

“I will.” Obi-Wan swears. “But I need to run to the quartermaster’s first.”

“I had noticed you rifling through my half of the closet.” Ben lifts a brow.

“You don’t wear any of it.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “And I need my clothes refitted.”

Ben, who recalls precisely how much he did _not_ grow prior sixteen, doubts that claim, but doesn’t dash his padawan’s hopes of getting taller. Far more likely, Ben suspects, is that his padawan wants to be rid of his initiate whites, if only to reassure himself that he _is_ a padawan and he isn’t going anywhere. Ben had taken far longer to get there, in his youth.

Ben gives Obi-Wan the afternoon off, in light of their imminent departure, and himself makes his way up to the crèche.

The initiate-level clans all eye him suspiciously, but the younglings and their crècheasters in the nursery welcome him openly, and Ben happily spends a few hours playing push-pull with a few ambitious toddlers and rocking one fussy infant after another, basking in the sheer brilliance of their existence.

When he returns, Shmi has come back, streaks of engine grease across her face and liquid coolant staining her skirts. She’s also leaking happiness into the Force.

Ben pauses for a moment, enjoying how bright her happiness makes her, suffusing the room. She’d been working with the mechanics for weeks before someone mentioned the fact that she was getting paid, and the Chief Mechanic on deck Osk-9 showed her how to access the accounts that had been set up to her Ident. She’d come back to their quarters, dropped Anakin in Ben’s arms, walked into the kitchen, and promptly started crying. Not loudly, Shmi did nothing loudly, but tears streamed down her face that she quietly wiped away as she prepared tea with a Tatooine recipe. Ben had been dumbfounded, Anakin watching his mother quietly from his place in the Jedi’s arms. When Shmi finished making her tea, she marched Ben into the living area, sat him down, placed a cup in his hand, sat beside him and said; “This is _tzai_. Drink it.”

It had been spicy and milky and had a warm flavor that lingered, alike and yet unalike the special tea Beru started offering him around his second year on Tatooine. After he’d returned from one of his sporadic and ill-advised trips off-world. She’d screamed at him first, of course, certain he’d gone out into the wastes and finally let himself die when he disappeared without word or warning. But then she did much as Shmi did, with the art of ritual, and sat him down and put a cup in his hands. She hadn’t told him its name. She’d only told him to drink it in a tone that brooked no argument.

Ben blinks quickly at the sudden ache he feels for the absence of Beru Whitesun in his life. There are so many people he misses so fiercely, and half of them he sees every day.

“Obi-Wan and I will be leaving tomorrow.” Ben says, edging around her in the kitchenette so that he can turn the tea-kettle on while she attempts to wipe motor oil off Anakin’s hands and out of his hair. “That’s not coming clean.” He adds helpfully, and received the flat look of a mother who is well aware of that already.

“Will it be a long mission?” She inquires, continuing to rub the stains off Anakin’s hands.

“Hard to say.” Ben replies. “We’re attempting to track down a leak in a supply line.”

“What cargo?” She inquires, and Ben frowns at the fact that Anakins hands are, in fact, coming clean. He’d tried to help Beru with Luke with that very same problem a few times, and never completely succeeded in getting the boy grease-free. How Beru had done it was beyond him.

“Medical supplies. Spice, mostly, but other supplies as well.” Ben replied.

“Hmm.” Shmi frowns. “What sector?”

“Chandrila, though the supplies come from facilities in the Outer Rim. Thanium Sector, I believe.” Ben said, the detail itching at the back of his mind.

“Pirates?”

“Inside job, I believe, though they’re definitely working with a larger organization, given the sheer volume they’re transporting.” Ben replies, fetching Anakin a sugared slice of fruit from a jar on the counter. Shmi just sighs at the action, but doesn’t scold him for it. “Could be corporate espionage or it could be a criminal syndicate. Or it could be an amateur with bigger plans than they have brains. We’ll find out.”

“Ben!” Anakin reaches for the sugared fruit. “I was good. I helped _amu_ with the hy-drau-lic pro-pul-sion! Fruit please.”

Ben glances at Shmi, who nods, and Ben passes over the treat, which Anakin immediately crams in his mouth. “’Ank you.”

“Anakin, no one is going to take it away.” Shmi tells him. “Slow down and enjoy it, or it will be very unpleasant when you choke.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” She smiles, brushing back blonde hair that has started to curl.

“Spec-tacular!” Anakin grins, fetching the slice of sugared fruit from his cheek, and getting damp, sticky sugar all over the hands his mother just wiped clean.

~*~

Ben’s first glimpse of his very self-satisfied padawan had him hiding a smile. Obi-Wan had returned from the quartermaster with a new wardrobe in the same monochromatic style as the comforter they both preferred, and it made for a striking image. His red hair and blue-green eyes stood out all the more for the black, white, and grey tunics, whereas Ben’s red-gold hair seemed _less_ striking and more complimentary in his red-and-orange toned tunics, for which he was grateful.

His second look, however, had him flinching. The boy had brought a solid black robe, and it struck too close to some of his nightmares to see the boys face shrouded by the dark cowl. That, he apparently hid quite poorly, as his padawan disappeared shortly and the black robe never reappeared.

The trip to Chandrila was short, and neither of them bothered to unpack. In fact, they spent most of the trip meditating and working on Obi-Wan’s mental defenses, which left his padawan irritable by the time they arrived, nursing a headache.

At Chandrila, they spoke directly with the Director of Medical Logistics, Sam Tana, who gave them far more detailed reports as to what was missing, how long the supplies had been slipping out, in greater and greater increments, and what routes the different vessels took, yet all losing cargo, with no obvious connection.

“We have a reserve bulk order coming in in an attempt to alleviate our shortfalls, Master Jedi, and Chandrila would be very grateful if you and your padawan would meet up with this vessel and provide escort.” Sam Tana plead his case. “It may assist or delay your investigation, but our need, I feel, is more immediate.”

“I can only agree with your assessment, and a larger shipment is more vulnerable to this sort of trafficking.” Ben agrees. “We’ll need a very quick ship if we’re to meet her, however.”

The Chandrila government had been more than obliging, and Ben felt a great pang of longing for his _first_ padawan, who would have drooled at the sleek lines and heavy engines.

 _Wanna bet how many parsecs I can shave off this journey_? He could hear him crowing.

 _Padawan, please no_.

Ben shakes his head, dispelling nostalgia, and Obi-Wan looks up hopefully. “Can I pilot?”

“ _You_ , yes.” Ben agrees, which puzzles the boy, though his puzzlement quickly fades beneath excitement and glee as he dashes for the cockpit.

~*~

Trident Star, whatever there was to say about shipments getting suspiciously lighter mid-transport, was by no means a careless organization. The medical supply company housed several hundred refineries, laboratories, and raw pharmaceutical component stasis centers on what was possibly the most protected moon in the Thanium sector, and that was _after_ one discounted the privately owned military blockade. Orbiting the moon were several docking stations and one massive Hospital Station.

Approaching the blockade perimeter without authorization was a good way to get vaporized, and descent onto the planet was unfeasible. As it was, even with a diplomatic pass, several fighters escorted their vessel to a private port, wherein Ben and Obi-Wan were quarantined (and given complimentary vaccinations) while their idents and authorizations were processed.

“If the source is this well protected, you’d think they could do better with the supply transports.” Ben murmured, washed blue by the ultraviolet lights of their small quarantine bay.

“Is it all the same company?” Obi-Wan inquires. “Some companies sub-contract transport work.”

“Medical supplies have very specific storage and transport requirements.” Ben explains. “Trident Star provides all vessels to the exact specifications required by their products. If they subcontracted, they’d risk losing product in transit, and clients tend to disapprove of receiving spoiled medications.”

“So they provide transport, but who does the security?” Obi-Wan asks. Ben peers curiously at his padawan, whose eyes and teeth gleam brightly under the blue lights.

“Padawan, did you read the datapads I gave you?”

“I um…mostly?” Obi-Wan cringes. “I just – there was a lot I didn’t understand, so I had to look it up, and I got distracted by Anakin, and with the quartermaster, and I sort of…ran out of time.”

Ah, yes. Ben remembers that phase, wherein he hid his every failing from Qui-Gon, praying it was never noticed rather than admit…admit he couldn’t keep up.

“To be fair, padawan, there is much _I_ didn’t understand.” Ben says. “With time, you’ll learn to sift through what you need to know, and what you can look into _after_ you’ve found those details necessary to your efforts in the mission. Such as who provides transport versus who provides security.”

Obi-Wan curls in on himself. “Yes, master. I’m sorry.”

“You’re learning.” Ben sighs.

His padawan fidgets. “Um…who _does_ provide the security?”

“Nova Guard. Not the most pleasant group to work with,” Ben says. “but effective.”

Obi-Wan’ brow furrows, thinking. “Aren’t they known for using neuro-toxin laced weaponry?”

“Yes.” Ben replies. “But they are also known, my young padawan, for having a uniform that incorporates a face mask.”

“So you can’t always tell who you’re talking to.” Obi-Wan says.

“Precisely.” Ben agrees. “There are some who might find that…convenient.”

“Like cargo-stealing thieves?”

“Like cargo-stealing thieves.”


	2. Chapter 2

The vessel they were asked to accompany was a lumbering, densely shielded courier called the _Csarrascina_ , with a hold large enough to get lost in and enough medicinal product to resupply eight major hospitals.

Ben felt watched from the moment they stepped inside. His prime suspects where the load technicians, the Nova guardsmen, or the techs behind the yellow-lensed cameras located every ten paces.

“Padawan, perhaps you could find something less conspicuous to slip on over your tunics.” Ben says quietly. Obi-Wan looks up at him, brows raised, and then glances around the crowd of moving bodies working on securing all the cargo.

“Think the mechanics have overalls small enough to fit me?” He whispers back.

“They should.” Ben tips his head towards an Aleen mechanic, a species whose adult stature was just slightly shorter than Obi-Wan was now. “They always need someone small enough to fit in certain pipes.”

“If I end up in sanitation maintenance, I’m leaving my laundry on your bunk.” His padawan warns grumpily, and Ben snickers, shaking his head.

“Try to avoid that outcome. Now, you had best go off and be discreet while I speak to the pilot crew.”

“Yes, master.” His padawan nods promptly.

“And keep your communicator accessible.”

“Yes, master.” His padawan repeats.

“And do remember we are here to observe only. If you see something suspicious, report it to me but _do not_ intervene.”

“Yes, master.” Obi-Wan agrees, starting to shift impatiently.

“And Obi-Wan?” Ben says.

“Yes?” He asks shortly.

“May the Force be with you.” Ben says, reaching out to tug on his padawans short braid.

Obi-Wan blinks, impatience melting off. “Thank you, master, and with you.”

Ben finally lets him disappear into the bustle, trying to get a sense of who around them pays attention to his padawan as he sneaks off. Ben can still feel his own skin itching for being watched, but the Force whispers of no danger to Obi-Wan.

One of the advantages of padawans, of course, was that the galaxy was constantly under-estimating them.

~*~

Obi-Wan does find an overall uniform that fits, though it pinches uncomfortably in certain places, and he finds a cap to shove over his head. His lightsaber he fits into a pocket on his utility belt. Once donned, the dull green uniform all but turns him invisible amongst the crew, and he does find himself being barked at by a chief engineer. On a vessel this large, not everybody knows everybody, and an additional crew-hand isn’t suspicious. Thankfully, he’s only being tasked with doing maintenance checks on the cooling system before they hit hyperspace, and not with sanitation. The narrow service pipes are a bit tight, but basic mechanical systems are something initiates learn by the time they’re twelve, and he’s done practical evaluations in spaces just as small. Of course, he was bit smaller then too.

“How’s it lookin’ up there?” Another mechanic calls, voice echoing off the durasteel plating.

“The coolant compressor is a little low on pressure, but everything else checks out!” Obi-Wan calls back.

“Smack the dial with your spanner!”

Obi-Wan lifts a brow at the wall, but does as he’s told, feeling the dull metallic clang through the bones of his hand. The needle on the dial shifts. “All good!”

“Every time!” The other mechanic laughs back. “Now shimmy on out, we’re hitting hyperspace soon and that’s not where you want to be!”

“No, it’s not.” Obi-Wan mutters, shuffling backs down the service pipe and squeezing out the access hatch, someone helpfully pulling on his boots as he does.

“There you are – oh hey, you’re just a young’un. First service tour?” The mechanic asks, a grey-skinned twi’lek in dull green overalls.

“I’m older than I look.” Obi-Wan says defensively.

“Not by much, I reckon’.” The twi’lek retorts. “No shame in startin’ young. Everybody’s gotta eat.” He shrugs. “Plus, you fit in the tricky places.” He grins, and Obi-Wan finds himself grinning back.

“There is that.” The padawan agrees.

“I’m Mac’kuruq. ‘Mac’ to most.” The twi’lek held out his hand, helping Obi-Wan to his feet.

“Obi-Wan.” Obi-Wan replies, as the ship jolts into hyperspace. Mac frowns at the nearest yellow-lensed camera.

“They cut that close. We _just_ got told to pull everyone out of the walls.” He mutters darkly.

“Well, thanks for getting me out then.” Obi-Wan says, crouching down to re-fit the access panel. Being in the walls when the ship jumped to hyperspace was a good way to get electrocuted during the power surge. “They’re in a hurry, I guess. Chandrila really needs these medical supplies.”

“Still, no reason to cook the crew gettin’ there.” Mac mutters. “Had a friend of mine get caught that way. Permanent scarring in his lekku, never worked shipboard again.” He glances down at Obi-Wan and sighs. “Sorry. Hazard of the job.” He shrugs.

“Um. Right.” Obi-Wan nods. “So…now what?”

“Now we track down some rations, and wait for somethin’ to break.” Mac flashes another knowing grin.

“Uh…does that happen often?”

“Ship this big? Something’s always breakin’. Service droids can fix the fiddly stuff, but we certainly earn our paychecks. Especially on these medical supply ships, given all the extra equipment and modifications.”

Obi-Wan huffs. “Good to know.”

“You’ll learn quick.” Mac slaps his shoulder, steering him around the next corner.

“I…really don’t.” Obi-Wan mutters.

~*~

Ben, once he’s made himself known to the captain, the pilot crew, and the lead security officer, argues with a technician for half an hour before being allowed to download all the manifests and personnel rosters. Datapad in hand, he walks the decks of the ship, turning a different direction each time, studying the data and feeling his way around the vessel, waiting for any prompts or warnings from the Force.

He is also counting. Counting crew, counting Nova guards, counting crates, discreetly ensuring that those crates do in fact contain what they are labelled to contain. It has occurred to him that Trident Star could be creating the leak artificially, reporting that product was lost in shipment when in fact in never left the supply station. It would be a lucrative racket, as Chandrila had to pay more for the reserve supplies than the regular shipments.

Long term, however, it was a good way for Trident Star to lose a major contract, and therefor unlikely, but Ben checked, just in case. Not everyone considered things long term, and few did so as well as he did, given his….unique perspective.

He received the occasional report from his padawan, simple text-strings on his comms, which were more discreet. Apparently, Obi-Wan had made a friend. Apparently, things were almost guaranteed to break on this ship.

Ben went back to the reports he’d received from Sam Tana, hoping he had the maintenance logs.

He did, and it was nothing out of the ordinary. About one in five transports had to delay for mechanical malfunctions. Sometimes more than once per trip.

However, about one in four of _those_ vessels that experienced a mechanical malfunction and was forced to drop out of hyperspace also reported lost cargo. The only thing was – the stops were never in the same place, and never for the same amount of time or the same malfunction. They all were along different hyper-routes, on different types of vessels, with different crews – supposedly different crews, Ben thinks, eyeing the anonymous Nova Guards in their concealing uniforms. Or even, Ben considered, the blandly ordinary techs and mechanics in their dull-green overalls. Even more curious were that the delays on those vessels which lost cargo were incredibly short, whereas some of the vessels which reported no losses were suspended in empty space for hours or more.

But then, long delays were obvious.

And not once was there a report of another vessel, of being boarded. The cargo was there, and when it arrived in Chandrila, it wasn’t.

“Curious.” Ben murmurs.


	3. Chapter 3

_Padawan, how would you remove something from a ship without opening an airlock_?

Obi-Wan frowns at the text string cycling through his comm-link, sitting in a mess of fiber-optic cable as they attempted to reconfigure a malfunctioning stabilizer grid.

 _Trash compactor?_ Obi-Wan texts back, before stripping more casing from the cable and threading it through the framework, where Mac took over making sure it connected to the right key.

 _Possibly, but unless the compactor were disabled, it would destroy the product_. His master sends back. _Morgue_?

 _Too far from the cargo bays_. Obi-Wan replies. _And medical transports use incinerators. Precaution._

“Kriff!” Mac jerks, shaking out his fingers. “Hit the wrong key.”

“Fried the wire?” Obi-Wan guesses.

“Yes.” Mac grumbles. “And just re-set the polarity. _Again_.”

Obi-Wan sighs, abandoning the fiber-optics and moving to help Mac reset switches back into the proper order. “Blue-blue-yellow-green?” He asks.

“Blue-yellow-blue-blue-green.” Mac replies, then pauses. “Wait. No, that’s not right. Blue-blue-green-yellow-blue? Kriff, where’s the droid? Little bugger zoomed off with the specs.”

“The droid was recalled because the sensors in the ventilation tripped again.” Obi-Wan says. “I’ll go find it.”

“I keep telling the techs to leave the karking sensors alone! They’re calibrated too sensitively.” Mac snaps after him. “Every kriffing time they update, we get this problem, and half the crew thinks we got bugs in the walls.”

Obi-Wan waves a hand, acknowledging the other beings justified ire, and reaches out with his senses, trying to lean on his master’s training to find the droid. To his disappointment, he can’t discern between the droids, the ship, and the medical containers. Obi-Wan sighs, and searches the old fashioned way.

He finds the droid at the third airlock, resealing the ventilation pipes. “Mac needs you back.” Obi-Wan says. “We tripped the polarity again.”

The droid shrieks angrily and zooms off, Obi-Wan staring after it in bemusement, and then the padawan frowns at the port the droid just sealed. Obi-Wan crouches down, running his fingers over the port. He glances up at the airlock. The thing is, is that airlock vent-pipes are more like sieves, and they only open when the airlock connects to another ship to swap breathable atmosphere.

But the thing is, you don’t necessarily need to open the airlock to open the vents, and the droid just disabled those sensors. Obi-Wan eyes the access port. It’s tiny compared to the ships ventilation systems, which often doubled as maintenance access. Too small for even Obi-Wan to fit.

He looks back along the outer wall. There are four identical airlocks on this side, and four on the opposite side. He can’t fit in there, but medical-grade spice was transported in cylinders, and you could probably fit a dozen in each ventilation port when they were closed, and there were two ports per airlock.

 _Airlock ventilation ports. Disabled sensors._ Obi-Wan sends to his master.

 _Quite clever._ His master sends back. _When you can slip away unnoticed, come find me._

 _Provided we don’t drop out of hyperspace first?_ Obi-Wan sends back.

_Provided we don’t drop out of hyperspace first._

~*~

They do not drop out of hyperspace first, luckily.

“Were you able to verify that there were, in fact, supplies being shuttled into the vents?” Ben asks his padawan.

“Four of the vents were packed.” Obi-Wan confirms. “I think – it has to be a droid moving the cylinders. Anyone else would be noticed, but the service droids are just…always rolling around.”

“Agreed, which means someone is transmitting a program to the droids _and_ wiping them afterwards – all the droids on the previous vessels were scanned, and no such outlying programming was discovered.”

“So someone has to be on board to actually distribute the orders and cover it up.” Obi-Wan says.

“Ah, but that’s the easy part of our mission, young padawan. Every individual on board will be quarantined upon arrival at Chandrila, to be questioned by judicial forces and possibly a Jedi. I’ve already been in communication to that affect.”

“Not us?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Probably not.” Ben shakes his head. “We’ve discovered how, but we have also been tasked to, if possible, track down where that lost product has gone, which means we need to follow this stolen cargo as it moves.”

“But if it’s just being shunted into empty space…” Obi-Wan frowns.

“Tell me, padawan, have you had EVA training yet?” Ben smirks.

“Um. Yes.” Obi-Wan says, turning that frown on his master and crossing his arms pointedly. “But how do we get _in_ the other vessel?”

“Hopefully the same way the stolen cargo does.” Ben replies, amused. His padawan really needs to learn that sometimes these things just come as they will. More often than not, the Force provides sheer dumb luck.

“ _Hopefully_?” His padawan asks skeptically, voice rising an octave.

~*~

“That’s quite a bit more than those eight airlocks could fit.” Ben comments, voice crackling slightly over the space-suits comm-links as he watches the cylinders drift lazily in the black. Their opportunity had come halfway through the next dawn cycle, and they had left the _Csarrascina_ the moment Obi-Wan confirmed that the vents had been opened. “Obi-wan? Obi-Wan!”

“It’s beautiful.” His padawan breathes raspily, and Ben looks over to see him floating in repose, head tilted back to stare across the disc of stars and nearby gas clouds, glowing gold-green. Ben smiles in spite of himself, and lets his padawan enjoy the moment.

“It is.” He agrees. If there was one thing he truly missed about Tatooine, it was the clear desert nights when you could see half the galaxy in the sky. He also remembers holing himself up in the observatory at the temple whenever he and Qui-Gon were particularly at odds, and losing himself in the dazzling expanse of luminescent star-charts.

“The cargo-bay doors pressure regulators.” His padawan says, after a few minutes. “They operate on the same principle as the airlock vents. And they’re much bigger.”

Ben had surmised as much, but he’s glad his padawan was staying focused.

The Force prickles with anticipation just a moment before the ship appears out of hyperspace, and Ben lays a hand on his padawans suit. “Hold very still.” He orders. Their suits buzz as they are scanned, but Ben has wrapped the void of space around them both, and they are passed over as simple debris, even by the machines.

It was a trick he learned late in the Clone Wars, and cursed himself for all the lives lost because he couldn’t figure it out _sooner_. He and Plo Koon had gotten ceremonially drunk together when they had met up so that Ben could pass along what he had learned. Commander Wolffe had joined them, and together they uttered the litany for his Wolfpack, lost against the _Malevolence_. They could have been saved, if they had known then what he knew now.

So many could have been saved if they knew then what he knows now.

 _They will be._ He swears to himself.

The hold on the ship opens, and an automated tug retrieves the cylinders and crates while Ben moves himself and his padawan with the Force, so as not to draw attention with their thrusters, and they drop down into the ship’s artificial gravity. It’s easily of a similar class as the _Csarrascina_ , though far more modified and half built of scrap.

“Spice Frigate.” Ben mutters dourly.

“I- I have a bad feeling.” Obi-Wan says nervously, and Ben nods, drawing his padawan deeper into the shadows of the ships bay. The Force feels darker here, and prickles with warning.

The doors closes and they nearly fall over when the hold re-pressurizes, Ben just catching his padawan and holding him against the wall, himself holding on to a weld in the bulkhead.

“We do not want to be caught here, padawan.” Ben warns, watching a hatch open on the far side, and a pair of red-skinned devaronians step out, shouting at the droids. He can see the hilt of a laser-whip on one’s hip, and grits his teeth. “Into the vents.” He orders.

“Master, you won’t fit!” Obi-Wan hisses, pulling off his helmet.

“ _You_ will.” Ben replies sharply, but Obi-Wan glares back at him defiantly. “Padawan,” He softens his voice. “I can hide myself, but _you_ must _go_.”

“I can’t rescue you if you get caught!” Obi-Wan hisses tensely, upset.

“Oh, Obi-Wan, I have every faith.” He murmurs. “But I won’t get caught.” Ben promises the boy, who clings nonetheless, afraid of being left alone. “Now, _vents_. Work your way towards the control systems. We need to find out where this ship is headed, and, preferably, who it belongs to.”

“Fine!” Obi-Wan growls, shedding the EVA suit, which was too bulky to lend itself to stealth. His master takes it, gaze skimming the edges of the hold for a place to stash them. “Bant is going to kill me.” He mutters sullenly.

“She’ll have no reason to so long as you stay hidden and don’t do anything rash.” Ben says, ruffling Obi-Wan’s hair and immediately regretting it when he feels the slick glide of mechanical grease. “Weren’t you wearing a cap?” He mutters, wiping his hand off on his tunics.

“Lost it somewhere.” Obi-Wan shrugs. “ _You’re_ the one who sent me off to play mechanic.”

“Right.” Ben sighs, and he and his padawan slink along the bulkhead, Ben using the force to silently pry off the nearest access hatch. Obi-Wan gives him another seeking look before he crawls inside, trepidation wafting off of him in the Force. Ben tries to soothe it over with reassurance, but then his padawan ducks out of sight, and Ben has to fix the panel back in place and find somewhere to stash their EVA suits.

“Right.” He sighs again, one eye on the devaronian’s inspecting their new cargo.


	4. Chapter 4

Obi-Wan does not like it that his master is tense. The only conclusion he can draw, given that his master seems capable of absolutely _everything_ , is that he’s tense because he’s worried about Obi-Wan. Which means he thinks Obi-Wan isn’t capable of handling this mission.

Obi-Wan bites his lip against the curl of hurt in his chest. “I can do this. I can do this.” He whispers to himself. _There is no want, there is no need_ , he recites, _there is only what must be_.

“I must do this.” He tells himself. He is a Jedi Padawan, and he isn’t going to let his master down, not on their first real mission. Not _ever_. He’s not going to let them try and send him away again.

Obi-Wan tenses, freezing in place as he listens to another pair of devaronian spacers pass through the corridor above his head. His master had told him to work his way towards the commad systems, but this is a very large ship, and he’s…he’s a little lost.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and tries to settle his anxiety, focusing on opening his senses to the Force, letting it guide him. He’s done this several times now, and he’s certain that he’s failing spectacularly, because it seems to be guiding him down rather than forward, towards the other end of the ship where, hopefully, the command systems are. He’s not sure though. This ship has been retrofitted and he’s not familiar with the design. Devaronian, probably.

There’s a lot of machinery down below, he can hear mechanical whirring and thumping, like a processing plant, or the textile factories on Coruscant. It’s also a lot colder, uncomfortably so, as he makes his way further down, like trying to follow a whisper.

 _Cold storage for the medical supplies_? He wonders. It would make sense, though spice didn’t need to be kept _that_ cold. The main concern for spice was keeping it in the dark, as raw spice reacted with photons. Then again, maybe it was cold because it was cheaper not to heat this part of the ship. Still, he’s grateful that he still has the overalls on over his tunics, because the durasteel plating is downright chill.

Obi-Wan slips down another junction, wincing at the loud thump he makes on landing, and tenses, waiting. No one seems to notice, so he slowly keeps moving. The thrumming and drumming is getting louder, as Obi-Wan scoots along the shaft.

He can see the machines through a grate; large, pillared drums with some kind of spinning chamber inside. Obi-Wan watches, and workers feed a mix of powders into the drums, which output small blocks of the synthetically blended mixture, which other workers take away. Obi-Wan keeps crawling, trying to see what’s being done with the blocks, and observes the small blocks being wrapped in transparaplast and packed into larger crates. He watches one worker heave a crate up, and a devaronian laughing as he struggles, jeering and snapping a laser-whip right next to the man, without actually striking him. He flinches, and staggers under the weight of the crate. Obi-Wan feels a sick chill run down his spine as he takes a second look around the room below, not at the product, but at the workers.

At the _slaves_.

The slave takes the crate down the corridor and to an elevator, where a cart waits, and stacks it on the cart, returning to the work room.

Obi-Wan pushes himself up to his hands and knees, trying to turn around, and the grate below him – slips.

Obi-Wan only has the time to suck in a sharp breath, and the panel gives way.

He drops.

~*~

Ben pauses, freezing in an alcove, when a sharp burst of panic hits him through the Force.

“Oh, padawan.” He breathes, waiting, reaching out. He can feel surprise, fear, and then a surge of anger, and _knows_ his padawan was discovered.

Ben abandons stealth. “Padawan, change of plans. We’re hijacking this ship.” He says over the comm-link, and runs, drawing his lightsaber.

~*~

 _I’ll get – get right on that, master_. Obi-Wan thinks, trying to _breathe_.

He’d landed on his back on the worktable, with an explosion of fine powder as a stack of blocks disintegrated under his weight, all the air forced from his lungs. They spasm, and gasp, and gasp, and when he finally heaves in, he starts coughing, choking on the powder that clouds the air and painted several of the slaves around him in a dull brown dust. His eyes start streaming, stinging from the cloud, and he fumbles for his lightsaber.

He’s yanked abruptly off the table and a laser-whip snaps the space he just evacuated.

“Thanks!” Obi-Wan wheezes, swallowing against the powder grit in his mouth, finally getting his saber in hand and rolling out of the way of a second attack. He ignites the cyan blade and the devaronian sneers at him.

Maybe.

There’s not much light in the room, and yet everything seems…bright edged. Floaty, almost.

That’s probably not good. Obi-Wan blinks, forcing himself to focus, and halos dance off the glow of his blade. He gets shoved, and once more the dark haired human man has saved his hide, as the whip snaps.

“Jedi!” The devaronian spits. “Well, _almost_ a Jedi. The little ones don’t really count.”

“I do too!” Obi-Wan retorts, swaying. Or the room is swaying. He snaps the whip with his lightsaber, shunting aside the next strike, and the two weapons crackle where they meet.

“Free me!” The slave barks, voice full of command. As instinctively as Obi-Wan responds to his master, he responds now, severing the electro-shackles binding the man’s feet, and snapping the collar he wears with a rather blunt use of the Force.

And then he ducks, the whip snapping just a hairs-width from his ear, searing the side of his face. Obi-Wan hisses, turns, and lunges. The devaronian male reels back, and Obi-Wan strikes for his weapon, severing the hilt of the whip. By the time he’s turned the blade to force the devaronian to submit, the red-skinned man has produced a blaster.

Obi-Wan jerks, and a hand shoves him down, saving his life. The dark haired man grabs the barrel of the blaster, yanking, and then slams his fist into the devaronians face. He crumples instantly, out cold.

Obi-Wan blinks stupidly, watching the floor spin. “I don’t feel so good.” He mutters.

“You’re higher than the clouds of Bespin, _jed’ika_.” His savior growls, palming the devaronians blaster and filching his body for the transmitter to the electro-collars the slaves are wearing. “Turn that off.” He orders, gesturing to the lightsaber. Obi-Wan looks up at him stupidly, and then slowly fumbles for the switch. The blade winks out, and the shadows swirl, purple and blue, in the absence of the bright light.

Obi-Wan is only peripherally aware of the other slaves being freed and murmuring nervously amongst themselves, watching the blackness in the corners ooze until hands grip his shoulders and shake him. He looks up, startled, into golden-brown eyes in a tan face, dark hair dusted with powder. “How old are you?” The man demands.

“Thirrr-teen.” Obi-Wan slurs, and tries again. “Thirt-eeen. Thirteen. I’m a padawan.”

“Obviously.” He mutters. “Too young.”

“How old are _you_?” Obi-Wan retorts.

“Old enough.” He mutters. “What’s your name, _padawan_?” He spits the title, and Obi-Wan bristles.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Obi-Wan says, trying to ignore how the golden color of his eyes seems to be bleeding and crawling across his face. “Who _are_ you?”

The man hesitates, flinching. “Call me Naasade.”

Obi-Wan giggles. “I can’t. That’s my master’s name.”

Not-Naasade frowns deeply at that, studying Obi-Wan’s face, and finally he just scowls and shakes his head. “Fett.” He grunts. “And we need to move. Where is your master?”

“We’re h-hijacking the ship.” Obi-Wan says, his giggles receding into weak hiccups, trying to put his lightsaber on his belt and wondering why it won’t clip. Trying. Trying.

Fett snatches it from his hand and shoves the lightsaber in a pocket on the utility belt. There is no clip.

“ _Haran ti ner jate’kara bal te jetiise_.” Fett mutters darkly, grabbing Obi-Wan’s hand. “Stay with me, Kenobi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a translations:
> 
> Jed'ika = little Jedi  
> Haran ti ner jate’kara bal te jetiise. = To hell with my luck and the Jedi!


	5. Chapter 5

_They are flesh and blood. They live, and breath, and die_. Ben reminds himself, grounding his vision in the present, stopping himself from hacking into his enemies like so many senseless droids. _They can’t be rebuilt_.

Devaronians are vicious fighters, but they aren’t Dooku, or Ventress, or Maul, or Grievous, or – he doesn’t think about that one. They’re brawlers, all of them, not soldiers, and Ben has faced far more _dedicated_ evil. He doesn’t cut them down. He doesn’t _have_ to cut them down. He disarms, and downs, and, in the case of the weak-willed, simply puts them to sleep, as he works his way towards the bridge of this aggravatingly large vessel, deflecting blaster fire and gleefully shredding the laser-whips with the Force, watching them spark and die with satisfaction.

“Master!”

Ben whirls, blade up to guard and good thing too – he barely deflects the bolt, as the man with his padawan flinched and fired on instinct.

Ben gapes, lowering the blade, his heart screaming _Cody_? before reality catches up with him. There is no scar, and those eyes are too dark. That’s not his commander, his friend.

That’s Jango Fett.

“There you are.” Ben murmurs, puzzled, before his gaze drops to his padawan, who looks unfocused at best and…

“Is he…?” Ben questions.

“Took a face-full of spice. Eh, mostly spice.”

Ben grimaces, knowing there were all sorts of things spice could be cut and blended with, to varying and sometimes horrific result. “I see.”

“Do you?” Fett snaps. “Kid fell through a vent right into the mess. He’s too young!”

“Hence, him being in the vents.” Ben retorts, knowing the Mandalorian code said a child had to be fourteen to face battle. The True Mandalorian Code, at least. The Arcane Code said a child only need be ten. “ _Mand’alor_.” Ben presses a closed fist to the opposite side of his chest, and Fett pales.

“ _Don’t_.” The younger man utters, jerking Obi-Wan upright when he started to sort of…slides down. Ben sighs and closes the distance between them. Fett avoids his gaze, and Ben crouches down and heaves his padawan over his shoulder, earning a yelp.

“Master Naasade!” Obi-Wan protests, and then stills abruptly, tensing. Ben turns his head, frowning, and his padawan retches down his back.

“The healers are going to kill me.” Ben mutters, and Obi-Wan moans, pressing his hands to his eyes, flushed in the face. “Padawan, _sleep_.”

He passes out, and Ben receives a dirty look from Jango Fett.

“Shall we?” Ben offers, gesturing ahead.

“What are you doing here, Jedi?” Fett demands, switching out the power pack for the blaster in his hands. He’s acquired several, apparently.

“Tracking lost medical supplies for Chandrila.” Ben replies. “You?”

Fett jerks a hand towards his neck, expression dark and angry, and Ben focuses to make out the mark there, under chafed skin. It’s a brand. A slave brand.

 _Slave I_ , Ben thinks, remembering Fett’s ship. “Since Galidraan?” Ben murmurs darkly.

Fett jerks, glaring at him, looking too damn familiar. “The hell do you think you know about Galidraan, _jetii_?”

“That we were so very neatly played, the Jedi and the True Mandalorians, and that the Death Watch laughed while we slaughtered each other.” Ben replies, shifting his grip on Obi-Wan and pressing back against the bulkhead junction, so he could peer out around the corner without getting shot.

“Were you there?” Fett demands, grabbing his shoulder, blaster raised in threat.

Ben looks back at him evenly. “No.” He replies.

Fett glares back at him, studying his eyes. “Why do you have no name?” He asks roughly, releasing Ben and ducking around the corner, twitching a hand for ‘all clear’.

“Sometimes you have to give up who you think you are in order to become who you need to be.” Ben replies. “I walked away from one life in the hopes of making another. I couldn’t do that and remain who I was, so I gave my name away. I’m not ashamed of it.”

Fett is quiet for a few minutes, pondering that, and they make their way through another pair of devaronians.

“How the hell are you a Mandalorian Jedi?” Fett finally asks.

“How does a farmer become the _Mand’alor_?” Ben retorts.

“I’m not.” Fett snaps. “The True Mandalorians are dead.”

“Not all of them.” Ben snaps back. “And _Mand’alor_ isn’t something you can just give up, Jango Fett. You’re no _dar’manda hut’uun_.”

Jango swings at him, and Ben dodges, rebalancing so Obi-Wan doesn’t slide off his shoulder. “Shut the hell up.” Fett orders darkly, turning back to the task at hand with the ease of a life-long soldier. With the ease of a natural leader.

Ben shuts up.

~*~

Their ‘hijacking’ of the Spice Freighter is rather…anticlimactic. Most of the crew they took care of long before they arrived on the bridge, and the pilot was wise enough to surrender with the threat of a jedi saber under his nose.

Ben lays his padawan down out of the way, bundling his own robe under the boys head. Obi-Wan is sweating profusely, and he’s restless even under a sleep suggestion. Ben lays his hand over his padawans brow and takes a moment to lend him some healing energy.

They’re definitely going to have to work on how to purge toxins from the body.

“Can you make sense of the controls?” Ben asks, watching Fett frown over the consoles. Ships like this, outfits like this, were notorious for customizing their command center for the singular purpose of preventing incidents such as this.

“I’ve been here two fucking years. They’re not _that_ creative.” Fett mutters. Ben studies the man discreetly. A solid fighter with superb training or not, Fett’s been a slave on a spice freighter. He’s leaner than he ought to be, dehydrated, and his pupils are blown wide. He may not be as affected as Obi-Wan, but he’s got the drugs in his system as well, and there is a fine tremor running through his body.

The ship lurches. Ben throws out a hand to steady himself, and Fett bounces off of the control console with a curse. “The hell?”

An alarm starts whining, and a display panel lights up. Sensor grids.

“Oh.” Ben mutters irritably. “It appears we’re under attack.”

“What?” Fett whips around. “More of your _jetiise_?” He snarls.

“Oh, no.” Ben sighs, running a hand over his beard. “Pirates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a Translations:  
> Jetii = Jedi, singular  
> Jetiise = Jedi, plural  
> dar’manda = one who is rejected from mandalorian culture, one who has betrayed mandalorian values, the worst thing for a mandalorian to be  
> hut’uun = coward, which is a severe insult in Mandalorian culture.


	6. Chapter 6

“Boys, boys, boys – ahem, assuming I am speaking to gentlemen, of course – I invite you to _surrender_ now!” A rolling, aggravatingly familiar voice called out, with all due grand presentation.

Ben closed his eyes, laid a hand over his face, and groaned deeply.

The Force loved its ironies.

Fett shot him a look.

“Ah…hello?” Who can only be Hondo Ohnaka calls out again. “Are you _listening_ to me? I’m being very polite!”

Ben coughs, and gathers himself. “Yes, and your manners are most appreciated, it’s just, you see, we’ve only just completed a coup upon this vessel ourselves.”

“Say _wha_?” Hondo drawls. “Okay, okay, enough, I don’t like this talking through a door, it’s very poorly. I’m coming in, don’t _shoot_ me!”

“Don’t shoot _us_!” Ben retorts.

The door is forced open with a grinding screech, and the egregiously adorned figure of the Weequay pirate sweeps through the gap, wielding a cutlass in one hand and a blaster in another.

“Aha! Ah…only the two of you?” He seems put out.

“Three.” Fett replies curtly, and Ben shoots him a dark look. Fett lifts a brow and shrugs.

“And where is your partner hiding?” Hondo demands, his compatriots filing into the room behind him, bristling with blasters and rifles. His eyes fall of Obi-Wan, curled on the floor.

“Eh! Boy is sick!” He shouts, alarmed, and then bends down, leaning in to peer at Ben’s padawan.

“Kindly stay away from him, if you would.” Ben asks softly, igniting his saber under Ohnaka’s dark grey ear. The weequay narrows his eyes, looking up the length of the blade through tinted goggles.

“Jedi?” He comments coolly. “Now I see how you took this great vessel with only you three.” He stands carefully, the blade tip following him until he steps back, away from Obi-Wan, and Ben disengages the blade, point made.

“Actually, only myself and my padawan are Jedi.”

“Oh, really?” Hondo bounces on his heels, and looks to Fett, who gives Ben a displeased look for the attention. “And who are _you_?”

Ben lifts a brow and shrugs.

“Recently freed and going to stay that way.” Fett replies flatly. Hondo rears back a little, head tipping from side to side, and stills when he sees the slave brand on Fett’s neck.

“Good. Good. Yes, of course.” Honda nods, and whirls with flair. “There is only the matter, then, of the cargo.”

“The _non-sentient_ cargo.” Ben and Fett retort together.

“Hondo Ohnaka does not deal in slaves!” Hondo snaps sharply, and then shakes himself, putting his grinning smile back on his hard face. “Yes, of course, the non-sentient cargo. You see, my men and I, well, we’re very interested in that, and surely it’s a bit much for just you two?” He wheedles.

“Ask the Jedi.” Jango snorts, stowing his blaster as if it made him any less dangerous. “I only want off this fucking ship.”

All the pirates turn to Ben, who resists the urge to frown. Behind him, Obi-Wan moans in his sleep, and Ben glances down at the boys waxy pale face.

“I’ve little interest in another fight today.” He sighs, and then eyes both Jango and Hondo. “In fact, I think all of us can come to a…mutually beneficial agreement.”

“Oh, Master Jedi.” Hondo smiles, sweeping out the hand holding his sword. “You have my utmost attention.”

~*~

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and whined, head pounding, mouth tasting outright foul. “Master?” He calls out.

A hand takes his, and Obi-Wan shivers. “Cold.” He mutters. “Did we….”Obi-Wan frowns, blinking at the pale blue ceiling. “Um…what were we doing?”

“Tracking the loss of the Chandrilan medical shipments. How much can you remember, padawan?” Master Ben inquires gently, voice low, for which Obi-Wan is grateful.

“Right. _That_. I fell…um…I fell?” He asks. “And then…I think I need to thank someone for saving my life. Several times. Was that you?”

“That was not me, padawan.” Master Naasade snickers lightly. “And I thanked him for you.”

“Everything was really bright and…and it actually felt good. Really good. But also bad? I think I threw up.” Obi-Wan comments, licking his chapped lips.

“You did.” His master replies long-sufferingly. “On me.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan mutters. “Sorry. What _happened_?”

“Well, after you took a face-full of spice, we hijacked the frigate from the devaronians, were attacked by pirates, made a deal with the pirates, and now we are in a Chandrila medical station, sans their lost cargo but with all the information they’ll need to ensure there are no further issues. Judicial will prosecute the smugglers to the full extent of their authority, and the rest is not our problem.”

“Why didn’t we get the cargo back?” Obi-Wan asks. “I _saw_ it. I think. Master, my head hurts.”

“That’s because you’re having withdrawals.” His master smooths a hand over his forehead and through his hair, and Obi-Wan leans into the comfort. “And we didn’t get the cargo back because there were pirates, padawan mine, and I rather didn’t want to fight them.”

“Oh. That sounds smart. Will we get in trouble? Because pirates have the cargo?” Obi-Wan asks, and then shudders. “I messed up, didn’t I? It’s my fault and the council will say I’m not meant to be a padawan and-“

“Obi-Wan.” His master drops his hand and covers his mouth, leaning over to look him in the eye. Obi-Wan blinks, little white lights dancing over his master’s face. “No one is taking you away from me. You did not ‘mess up’. It was an accident, and it was quite fortuitous. We’ve successfully stopped an illegal smuggling operation, freed several dozen slaves, and neither of us is permanently injured. We may have even made a friend or two. Time will tell.”

“So…it was a good mission?” Obi-Wan asks, seeking clarity and reassurance.

“Yes, I’d say so. Now,” His master smiles. “Whether we survive the healers upon our return is another story.”

“Master, _no_.” Obi-Wan moans, turning to bury his face in his pillow. “Healer Ni Hiella _terrifies_ me.” Inside, he basks in quiet relief at his master’s promise.

 _No one is taking you away from me_.

Against the pillow, he smiles.

“A sentiment I fully understand.” His master drawls, ruffling his hair before stopping abruptly.

“Still greasy?” Obi-Wan mumbles, muffled by the pillow.

“Quite.” Master Ben grimaces, and Obi-Wan giggles.

~*~

Jango Fett steps off the transport and looks over the Coruscanti skyline with an unusual sense of trepidation.

He’d stayed with Ohnaka and his crew for a few cycles, getting his strength back, relearning the galaxy, and doing a few jobs with them. Hondo’s exaggerated personality was grating at times, but he was a surprisingly decent tactician and respectable leader. He also apparently had an iron stomach, Jango thought wryly, because no one warned Jango that their green ale could knock out a sarlacc.

All in all, he wasn’t a bad friend to make, though Jango still occasionally cringed at the thought.

When he’d earned back his keep and then some, Jango parted ways, hastily avoiding Hondo’s idea of a grand send-off celebration, and made his way to Galidraan with a grudge to repay.

But having the governor pathetic and weeping at his feet, begging for his life hadn’t brought him any satisfaction, and Jango bit back his black fury long enough to remind himself that there would be nothing honorable in executing the man like that. All he wanted was his beskar’gam, which the _hut’uun_ had taken from his as a trophy when Jango had been his prisoner.

The governor didn’t have it. Jango had him spitting teeth, blood running down his face, and _he didn’t fucking have it_.

“A man came for it months ago!” The governor whimpered. “And said to tell anyone who came looking that No One had taken it. Please. _P-please_.”

No one.

Naasade.

What Jango didn’t understand was _why_. Naasade had claimed his armor weeks before he found Jango on that Spice Frigate, and he hadn’t said anything then.

Instead, he’d parted by saying “I know who you are, Jango Fett. When you remember, you know where to find me.”

Sideways fucking bastard.

So Fett had made his way to Coruscant, though hells knew how he was supposed to talk to the man. Jango has the death of six Jedi on his hands. He’ll get nowhere near the Temple.

Feeling peeved beyond measure, Jango drops into one of the thousands of Coruscant Visitors Centers and finds a HoloNet terminal and a public comm channel where _anyone_ can contact the Temple.

There is no directory for who resides in the Temple, for security reasons, but he does manage to find where he can submit a personal entry for specific Jedi, though no doubt it will still be filtered through an AI system first. Jedi would spend all their lives on useless spam otherwise.

 _Here’s me, finding you_ \- _daryc sur'haai shabuir_. He sends, and finds himself somewhere to eat that doesn’t taste over-processed and too long preserved. He leaves his own comm-link signal and waits.

 _Brown-eyed bastard, really_? He gets back, not an hour later, which is either impressive, or means that Naasade gets no mail whatsoever. He also receives a date and time for the Temple plaza, and scowls at it, because he’d rather not be shot by a zealous Temple Guardian, Jedi Code eschewing revenge or not.

Arguing with himself, and pissed off by the time he decides, Jango goes. He wants that _beskar’gam_. He _earned_ it.

It’s early in the morning cycle. Painfully early, but as a result, even the Temple plaza is all but deserted, save the ever-present traffic lanes nearby. There are a few casual observers, nocturnal-types, but it’s as much privacy as anyone gets this close to the Temple.

As Jango approaches, keeping himself discreet and idly plotting entry and exits points, though there are admittedly few – the Temple Guardians knew what they were doing, and that building is a fortress – he can see Master Naasade and his Padawan already there. They’re performing some form of open-handed kata, with slow, deliberate movements designed to stress the muscles and test the endurance.

Naasade breaks away when Jango’s within a reasonable distance, pausing to tell his padawan to continue, and retrieved a parcel set off to the side, slinging it over his shoulder. Jango stops, and waits for Naasade to come to him.

The man is wearing light red and soft orange, Jango notices. He had been months ago as well, and Jango takes it in with new scrutiny. Colors held meanings when worn on armor, and Naasade was or used to be Mandalorian. True red was for honor, dark red for victory, but that shade – perseverance. And orange was passion, was lust for life, and yellow was loyalty. That soft orange, edging in between, that was duty.

 _Duty and perseverance_. Very Jedi values. Very Mandalorian ones too. Jango swept an eye over his padawan, a study of white to black, and bit his tongue. White for new beginnings, for youth, for possibility; black for justice; slate grey for remembrance; and silver – silver was for truth, mostly. But also integrity, purity, and coupled with white – innocence.

Jango looked away, as Naasade came to stand before him, and focused on the boy’s master instead. Naasade handed over the parcel, and Jango yanked it from his grip in his desire to have it back. He lifts the cover and frowns at the metal scraped raw, and the new sheen of blue on the underside.

“He repainted it.” Naasade explains. “Badly. So I stripped it back down to bare iron.”

“And this?” He demands, lifting a gauntlet to reveal the blue-looking underside.

“Cortoisis alloy.”

Jango twitched, head jerking up in disbelief. There was no way a _Jedi_ had…and yet, it had the right sheen, the right look to it.

“Would you like me to test it?” Naasade inquires, blue-green-grey gaze seeming to bore into his soul. Jango thrusts the gauntlet at him in challenge. Naasade holds it out in front of himself and draws his saber, lighting it with the blade down. It strikes the alloy and gutters out, power relay temporarily overloaded. “Disperses blaster bolts too.”

“Costs a fucking ton.” Jango mutters.

Naasade tips his head, neither here nor there, and reaches into the bag, beneath the armor, and retrieves from it an object the Jedi have held for centuries, secured in their vaults.

The Darksaber. He holds it out.

Jango snarls at him, recoiling. “Why?”

“… _sa sarad cuyir gotal de pitat, runi cuyir gotal de akaan_.” Naasade murmurs, and Jango flinches at the unexpected poetic refrain from the Tombstone of the First Mandalorian.

 _As flowers are grown by rain, so is the soul grown by war_.

Naasade watches him expectantly, and Jango licks his lips, continuing, muscles tensed for a fight he will not get.

“From suffering comes compassion, from cruelty; mercy, from violence; peace. We are not born when we come into this world. We are born when we learn who we are, and we can only learn by being tested. Adversity is the crucible, honor is the way, and enlightenment the reward.” Jango finishes the ode, thinking something is lost in the meaning through translation. The words ache in his chest, in his bones, for all that his people have lost of their history, of their true selves.

“That isn’t an answer.” Jango mutters, feeling cowed and angry for it. He is always angry. “Why?” He demands again, half pleading with the older man.

Naasade sighs, and glances back at his padawan, who hasn’t faltered for lack of his master’s attention.

“Because you are the _Mand’alor_ , and the last True Mandalorian,” He says, turning back and pinning Jango with that burning blue-green-grey gaze. “ and our people need you.”


End file.
